Date: Thu, 29 Nov 2001 07:51:34 -0800 (PST)
From: hugh questorius
Subject: Boss Man (inc, D/S)
Through the white glare of the New Mexico desert, two figures, running,
side by side with an easy practiced gait, pacing each other. They breast
the crest of a rise and stand looking out at the distant, violet mountains
as they get their breath.
Sweat stains darken their T shirts under the arms and across their chests.
The older of the two, tough, solid, mid 40's, scoops up the bottom of his T
shirt and wipes the sweat from his eyes. As he does so the much younger
one, 18? 19? slim and athletic, flicks a quick, guilty look sideways to
take in the fleeting glimpse of the other's hairy body. He longs,
desperately, to have a hairy body like that one day and often peers
impatiently in the bathroom mirror at the patch of silky hairs at the
center of his own chest. Eventually he takes a deep breath and says "Dad."
"Yeah?"
"Do you ever think. I mean, do you remember."
"What, son?"
"That time when I was 16 and Officer Bart had to bring me home in the Squad
car 'cos I was so drunk.
"Yes, what about it?"
"And next morning you gave me a whipping"
"To teach you a lesson, yes"
"But I was 16!"
"You deserved it. I wasn't going to stand for that sort of behavior in my
house"
"Do you . do you ever think about that?"
"The beating next morning - or you being drunk that night?"
"The beating. The way you did it"
Somewhere warning lights started flashing in his head. "Er, not really.
No." Long pause, then "Why, do you?"
"The way you did it."
"Using my belt, you mean?"
"No. Not just that. The build-up." There was a long, tense silence
between them. The boy's heart was thumping and he was sweating all over
again, but he had started so he plunged on. "You told me to stay in my
room. And to lie naked on top of the bed. You waited til mom had gone to
mass and we were alone in the house. Kept me waiting all that time! Lying
face down on my bed thinking "I'm 16. He can't be going to whip me!" And
then hearing your footsteps coming down the hall. I was terrified!" He
shot a look at his father who avoided his eyes.
"Bloody terrified" he repeated.
"Watch your language, boy!" snapped his father, sternly. Then he added, "I
was hoping you'd stand up for yourself, Jason. Say "I'm not going to take
this." But you just buckled under. No guts. If you'd stood up to me like
a man I wouldn't have thrashed you. Leastways, not so hard. But you were
submissive like you were still a kid. So I whupped you. Hard.
"You make it sound like it was my fault!"
"It was, Jason. It was"
"For being drunk - or being submissive?"
Long pause, then "You got whipped for being drunk. But I wouldn't have
been so hard on you if you'd shown some guts. Anyway, what's all this
about? It was a long time ago!"
"It doesn't seem so long to me. I thought you'd never stop. Not just my
ass but my back and shoulders and legs too. It was pretty savage. I think
you . I think you enjoyed it!"
(Angrily) "What you saying boy? That I'm some kinda pervert? Eh?" (Then,
with narrowed eyes) "Or maybe YOU enjoyed it? Is THAT what this is about?"
"I . I often think about it." he whispered, hoarsely
"And get a hard on?" He looked down at his son "Jeez! Look at you! You
got a hard on right now! Just talking about it. You WANT me to whip you,
don't you? Right now, don't you boy?"
His son made no answer but he peeled off his T shirt and sank to his knees,
facing his father. He unbuckled his belt and slid it out from the waist
loops. Wordlessly he laid the belt across both palms and raised the belt
like an offering. His father took it, wrapped it slowly round his fist
once and then lashed it, full force across Jason's chest. The boy grunted
with the pain but arched back wards, offering his body to the whip and
spread his arms from his sides, palms forward in a gesture of utter
submissiveness. This incensed his father into a rage of contempt and he
lashed him again, backhanded across his ribs as hard as he could. Then
again across the chest and yet again, catching him squarely across the
nipple with the very tip of the belt. Jason yowled and bent forward to
protect himself, but the belt struck down along the length of his bare back
and again, biting into the back of his shoulder blade. Jason straightened
up and, stifling sobs of pain, flung his arms around his father's hips,
pressing his face against the hard muscles of the older man's abs. He
could smell the flog-sweat through the T shirt and thought of the wet body
hair under it.
His father gently but firmly pushed his son's head down ,,, down til the
boy was eagerly nuzzling the rampant crotch. His father unzipped and
scooped himself out and fed himself into Jason's hungry mouth.
A furious fuck-need swept over him and within moments ugly lust-grunts were
heard as he fired wad after wad. His hips jerked in repeated spasms,
emptying jets of man-juice down his boy's throat. Drained at last, he
withdrew and looked down at his son's upturned face, eyes closed in
ecstasy, mouth agape and a trickle of white cum dribbling down his chin. A
wave of revulsion swept over him. "Fucking faggot!" he snarled and struck
the submissive face with the back of his hand, sending the boy sprawling in
the dust at his feet. His hard knuckles had burst Jason's lip and blood
mixed with cum was smeared across the swollen mouth. Disgusted, his father
kicked the sprawled body in the guts, turned and walked down the slope,
shaking with rage and loathing.
At the bottom he started his easy running pace back towards the farm and
the regular rhythm and physical activity calmed him. Was the kid alright?
He looked behind and saw a figure limping down the slope. He'd be OK. The
older man picked up the rhythm again and ran on. Only now there was
something very like a smile on his face.
That night he lay alone in his bed, unable to sleep, going over the events
of the day in his mind. His wife would not be back from her sister's until
the week end. Eventually he threw off the covers and, naked, with an
aggressive erection, he padded barefoot down the dark corridor to his son's
room. He entered, without bothering to knock . . .